


Believing In The Impossible

by WriKai



Series: Kylie's Supernatural [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-01 10:10:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8620453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriKai/pseuds/WriKai
Summary: Angels. Demons. Monsters. It's real, it's all real, and I have demons gunning for me, but I don't know why. What is a homeless girl supposed to do in a world exactly like her own, except SURPRISE! At least half of what you've been brought up to believe in is false, because Monsters and angels and demons are real, and they're right in that same world with you.





	1. The First Time I Met God

The first time I ever truly believed God existed was when I met him. It was two years after my mom left, and almost a year since the rest of my family died.

I didn't believe in God before that. I believed that Earth was simply a living Hell or Purgatory, that I'd already died and was being eternally punished in a universe where everybody is punished for being born in to sin. 

I didn't know my crimes, but I knew my sentence. 

Then I saw God. I hadn't met him yet, but I saw him, almost six months after.... The deaths. I was in the back of a church that was protesting two of my best guy friends going on a date. The priest was speaking about how "their lifestyle was a sin," yadda yadda bullshit. 

I was in the back, about to stand and protest, when he appeared. God in a tan overcoat, with a tie that wasn't quite straight and hair that was a mix between styled and ruffled, somehow. And not the douchey version, but a natural kind.

I sat there, in the back row, and watched as God told him that "he who lies in my name shall choke on their own venemous tongue." 

I sat there and watched as the asshole priest that was APPARENTLY getting some good 'ole fashioned gay love on the side, he choked on his own venemous tongue.

Everybody rushed to the priest, running past the man that claimed to be the Lord. He stopped for a minute, cocking his head to the side, and stared at the painted glass art on the walls. When he disappeared, they had changed to his visage.

The priest was dead when the EMTs arrived, but that wasn't important. I couldn't help but try and figure out how he'd done it, the stranger claiming to be the new ruler of the universe. I didn't believe in God just yet. Remember, I only started believing after I met him, and I hadn't met him yet. I'd only borne witness to what I considered the greatest magic trick of all time. 

I was honestly thinking that he caused the priest to have some sort of severe allergic reaction. Some people get the whole tongue swelling thing if they're even in the vicinity of peanuts or shrimp. Maybe the guy's pockets were lined with peanut butter, or maybe he had a few shrimp in his pockets. 

But the stained glass.... He would've had to have gone some night before, and replaced the entire thing completely. Afterwards, maybe he would've had a projection of the original image until the timing was right? Remote in his pocket, next to the shrimp?

It was a crazy theory, but I didn't know what else to believe. God wasn't real to me yet. Miracles didn't happen. 

But then miracles started happening. Almost four months later, I got a call from another homeless friend, Rodriguez. 

Rodriguez told me the color of the signs and buildings all around him, not too far from the alley he lived in. He told me the color of the sky, the shape of the clouds, the way a donut looks smaller than it feels.

Rodriguez had been blind for almost forty years, according to him.

He said that God had healed him; that the Lord walked among us once more. Rodriguez had always been faithful in the Lord and Jesus and all the Hallelujah bull, so I didn't buy it at first. Not until he started describing said Lord.

Tan overcoat.

Tousled hair.

Blue eyes.

Bit of scruff, as if for a beard.

And apparently sores on his face, now. As though his skin was tearing apart. 

That's when I did research. I had a friend on the force that I asked questions to, and he said he couldn't tell me anything. Ongoing investigation. Crosses multiple departments. Big secrets.

But the guy had the same description, and the same actions. He'd show up, do something big like kill a lot of people, and leave. He'd killed off the KKK, motivational speakers, and apparently been present when mass spontaneous healings occurred. 

I found him on the internet. He was everywhere, once you found the right trail and the right people. A few people claiming to have seen him, claiming to have spoken with him. Getting a taco. Healing a kid. Disappearing.

I knew some of the stories were bullshit, but then again they were there. I had my proof that something was going on. 

For the first time in a long time, I sat myself down and prayed. Two months of research and talking to people had gotten me nowhere on finding a pattern or him, so I said "fuck it, let's try the prayer shit."

"Dear God," I started, standing in the middle of an alley somewhere in downtown NYC. Then I stopped, realizing I didn't know what to say or do. What do you do when you pray?

"I don't know how to do this well." I decided, sticking with the truth. "I don't know how to pray, or believe properly, or anything that you would expect from someone trying to get a phone call with you. Hell, I don't even know what to say." I shrugged, keeping my eyes open and my head facing skyward.

"I guess I'll start with thank you." I decided. "For the church guy who was preaching against homosexuality when he was getting some dick on the side. That guy and his flock had been harassing some other homeless friends of mine. Thank you for making him stop, for revealing that it doesn't matter whether Harry likes Sally or Joe. 

"Thank you for the KKK, for stopping them and causing them to disband.

"And thank you for Rodriguez, for healing him. You may not remember who he is, but there was a homeless man on the sidewalk, more than likely begging for change. You stopped by, talked to him, and gave him his sight back. He called me afterwards and told me all these different colors and sights and was so excited that he started talking in Spanish half the time, but he was so happy... I haven't seen or heard Rod be truly that happy until that phone call.

"I don't know if I'm supposed to ask for anything. I feel like when people pray, a lot of times they're asking for forgiveness or help or the winning lotto numbers. I don't like asking people for help, I never have, and even though you're God I still think you're people, kind of, because I've seen people do good things and bad things, and you've done a lot that can be thrown either way, but I'm gonna call the majority of it pretty good and ok by me." I took a deep breath, organizing my thoughts once more.

"So thank you for doing something." I finally said. "Thank you for caring about these people, and for helping my friends. Thank you for showing me that God is here, and that he cares."

I took a deep breath, and waited a few minutes before finally opening my eyes.

As expected, there was nobody around me. 

I figured it was probably better that way. After all, what would I do if God magically appeared? Fall to my knees in reverance? Faint? Swear up a storm?

Probably all three. 

I let out a breath I didn't realize I had been holding, and started to laugh a little bit. The guy was God, dammit! He must be far too busy to show up to speak with one homeless girl! Rodriguez could've just gotten lucky!

I turned and walked a few feet to my sleeping bag, hidden underneath a mound of cardboard boxes I had constructed to be a small temporary home. 

I leaned my back against the brick wall next to it, thinking. I had just prayed. To God. To a figure I hadn't believed existed. And I had said thank-you. 

Thank-you to the thing that had stood passively when my family was murdered. My brothers, my dad.... I still remembered the black eyes of their killers, still remembered the tripwire in the door that I should've passed through, but didn't. I didn't because I'd left my plate in the family room. 

I sank to the ground, ignoring the scratches that the brick inflicted. I had tried to ignore those eyes for so long. Rationalize them. Killers wearing contacts. A trick of the light. The adrenaline of me running for my life from them, running from the screams and deaths and howls of laughter and glee. 

Everything has a rational reason. Except why mom flipped out and left, why my family was murdered, and why God now walked the earth. 

Other than those, everything had a rational reason. 

I didn't even feel the tears on my face until a familiar voice spoke up. 

"Why are you crying, child?" He asked. I looked up, and followed the edges of the tan overcoat to the shoulders it sat on. From there, I truly believed that God existed.  
It's hard to disprove what's right in front of you. 

"Because of what I remember." I replied. His face had sores on it, yes, and I worried for his health. "Are you alright?"

God bypassed my question, coming to sit beside me on the dirty ground. "Tell me what you remember." He requested kindly, holding out a hand. In it was.... Food. A PB sandwich, no J. My favorite. 

I took it slowly, unsure of what to do. "Thank you." I said, taking a small bite.

It tasted like heaven.

"Please, tell me what makes you so sad." He requested again.

So I told him. I told him about my family and their deaths. I told him that I ran away, like a coward. I ran and ran and ran and never looked back. I knew, somehow, that they would be waiting for me. 

And as I told him, told God what lead me to be homeless, I felt something in me lessen as tears continued to fall. It was as if a burden that I had carried, it was gone, if only for a moment. 

"Did you mean it?" He asked. I stared at him, confused. "You said thank you. You have not believed for the longest time, you have every reason not to, and yet you took the time to seek me out, to research, to pray and ask for nothing, but instead offer thanks. Did you mean it?"

"Yeah." I said, feeling it to be true. I had meant it. He had done good. 

"Thank you."

"Thank me?" I asked.

"There are many who think I am a cruel God," he explained. "A vicious and angry and uncaring God, but I am not that person. I do care for you, for all of you, better than my father did before me."

"God has a dad?" I asked. He didn't answer. 

"Here," he said finally, my sandwich long gone. He handed me a small business card, with a name and a number. Dean Winchester. "What happened to your family, call and tell him. He will be able to help you."

"What do you mean?" I asked. He started to rise, and I grabbed his wrist. "Wait!"

He stopped, staring down at me... Differently. No longer like I was a person. I shirked away, suddenly afraid. The second I moved in fear, his whole demeanor suddenly changed, like a ripple effect across his skin. "You are malnourished." He stated, reaching in to his coat. He pulled out another sandwich, and a bottle of water. "Take these." He said, the request being more of a command. I complied wordlessly, still scared of the person, man, being, GOD in front of me. Another sore had broken out, a new one, on his neck. 

"Tell them Castiel sent you." He said, dropping a cell phone at my feet. 

"Is that your name?" I asked, my eyes leaving him for only a moment to grab the phone. When I looked up, he was gone. "Hello?" I asked, standing to look around. "God? Castiel? Hello?" 

Nobody answered. The only proof I had of my not being insane was the food, water, and phone. 

And a business card I still held in my hand. I turned it over back and forth, contemplating my choices. 

I had a name. Dean Winchester. 

I could research him, first. That would give me a better idea of who he was. And after I knew, I would call. 


	2. Last Resort

Months of research later, and I did not call. God dropped off the map. This new guy, Dick Roman, started hitting the newslight. I'd lost my sleeping bag, my spare clothes, and just the majority of things that weren't essential. 

Dean Winchester, and his brother Sam, were killers, and then had subsequently BEEN killed. 

A year went by, and things had tried to kill me, twice. It was that reason alone that I still considered calling the number that belonged to a dead man now. 

The black eyes.... They weren't just made up. They were real. You don't just put in sclera contacts WHILE you were blinking.

I'd tried. 

The only thing I knew that hurt them was salt. I'd thrown some in their eyes, at one point the first time they attacked. They recoiled like it burned them, and small bits of smoke came up from their bodies.

You bet your ass I carry a shit-ton of salt with me, now. Actually, after the first attack, I learned how to make small salt-bombs (don't ask), and made sure I got good at using a rinky kid's slingshot. They worked better than my little pocketknives did. 

I was thankful for the prep on the second attack. I got away with less injuries. 

Both times, I prayed to God or Castiel or WHATEVER he wanted to be called. I got no answer. 

He had just dropped out of existence, almost. 

A year passed since meeting Cas. It was wierd, near the end of the year it almost seemed like most people were stoned. Made it easier to rob convenience stores, but I didn't like how the food made me feel. Sick and slow, like I was drugged or dying. I stuck with anything fruity that I could steal, which wasn't hard. I had a friend of mine, vegan and homeless, than helped. I didn't pray to God much anymore, besides the random "hey, hope you're alright." 

I never heard back again, though. 

Eventually, I was so tired. More attacks had happened. Those things that weren't human, the things I could no longer deny were something otherworldly, they just didn't stop. Salt didn't kill them, only hurt them. Nothing I had killed them. Nothing I could do stopped them permanently. Only for a little while.

So eventually, over a year after meeting God, Castiel, WHOEVER, I called the number. I called dead Dean Winchester.

...........

Voicemail. The fucking voicemail of a dead man. What else did I expect? 

"Hello?" I started, deciding to roll with it anyways. I was out of options. "My name is..." I paused. I couldn't tell him my real name. "Kai. I was told to call you by, well, this is going to sound crazy," I let out a small, nervous laugh. "God. About a year ago. If you don't believe me, look in to the reports on the KKK dismemberment, multiple anti-gay or anti-vet pastors being suddenly killed, etc. All the big random crap that happened last year, it all kind of ties to him. Even little stuff. I know, it sounds crazy, but you gotta believe me. A year ago, he gave me this number to call you. I didn't because, well, research said you were a murderer and kind of dead. But I'm calling now, because God, or Castiel, he said to tell you Castiel sent me. He told me to tell you about," I gulped. "The people that killed my family. They have black eyes. They're not human, and they keep coming after me. Salt hurts them, but...." I took a deep breath. "I'm tired. I'm scared. I need help. Please," I fought back tears. I was so tired. "Please, help me. Castiel was kind. I don't know where he is now, but he told me that you could help. Please," I took another breath. "Please help me."

I hung up, and started to cry. That phone call had been my last hope and resort for someone, ANYONE, coming to help me, and what did I get?

Fucking voicemail.

"Castiel," I whispered. "Please. I need help. I need someone to help me know what to do. I'm barely surviving as it is," I shuddered, feeling more tears flow from me. "And I don't know how much longer I can do this. I don't want to die. I don't want to live scared forever.

"Please, Castiel," I prayed. "Please help me."

It started to rain, and I sank to the ground. Another alley, a new town, no sleeping bag and no good place to sleep besides on concrete. I was cold. I was terrified. I was alone.I couldn't rely on someone helping me, couldn't bank on the thought that someone COULD help me, much less would.

Not anymore. 

I took a deep breath, stopping my tears. "I am all alone." I muttered, forcing strength in my voice. I stood up, and said the words again, stronger and louder. "I am all alone.  
"And I can do this."


	3. The Call

I got a call seven months later. It was 2:31 at night, and my ringtone went off loudly.

I answered it blindly, not looking at the number. I should've been awake. I shouldn't have been asleep. I'd already been attacked in my sleep I don't remember how many times, and had barely made it out of the last one. The only reason I was alive was because I'd set up a salt trap nearby. The screaming from the things had woken me up.

"Hello?" I asked, forcing myself to alertness. I took a sip from my energy drink. 

"Kai?" A semi-familiar voice asked in response.

"Who is this?" I took another sip.

"My name is Dean Winchester." 

I spit out the drink, and stood, looking around.

"You're lying." I accused. "Dean Winchester is dead. I saw the coroner's report."

"All of them?" 

"Yes." There had been multiple, from different dates.

"Then you should know that I don't die easy." He responded. I thought about it for a minute.

"Fair enough." I conceded.

"You said Cas told you to call?" He asked.

"You mean Castiel?" I asked. He affirmed the question. "Yeah, a year ago."

"Have you seen him recently?"

"No. Can you help me?"

"Where are you now?" He asked. 

"I'm in Chicago." I answered. "Downtown side."

"The things with black eyes, have they attacked you more?"

"Yeah."

"And you figured out about the salt?"

"Yeah. Why does it work?"

"They're demons." He answered. I laughed.

"You're kidding." I said. "You are absolutely kidding."

"You said God told you to call me." He pointed out. I didn't respond, so he kept going. "Does the phone you have accept pictures?"

"Yes." I said, still wrapping my head around the 'demons are real' thing.

"Good. I'm going to send you pictures of a few things you can do. There's a small shack nearby a warehouse in downtown Chicago, I'll send you the address. Find it and go there. Draw the symbol in front of the doors, and salt the fronts of the doors and the windowsills thickly. Me and my brother Sam will be there in two days."

"You're going to help me?" I asked, surprised. I could almost feel Dean being taken aback.

"Why wouldn't we?" He asked. 

"Because I called you months ago." I answered. "I thought you really were dead, and that I was on my own. Why now? Why call me out of the blue, now?"

"Do you believe me when I say that there are supernatural beings?" He asked. I didn't even pause to answer yes. I'd seen them with my own eyes, now, the demons. Seeing is believing. "Then believe me when I say that when you called, I couldn't answer because I was literally not in this world. I'm sorry we couldn't help you sooner." He paused for a moment before continuing. "We'll be there in two days. Get to the address I sent you. Draw the symbols with something that won't fade away easily. Line the doors and windowsills with salt. We'll be there in two days."

He repeated that time frame, and it was like a lifeline. Someone could help me.

"Thank you." I said.

The line disconnected after that, and I stared at my phone, waiting. It buzzed, and I got two messages. An address, and a picture.

"This looks like devil worship." I muttered, examining the symbol. There was a paint store a few blocks away. I could snag some from there, and an italian restaraunt about a mile in the direction of the warehouse kept a shit ton of salt in the back, never locked their doors. The only question was how I would get everything there. I wasn't the crazy kind with a shopping cart, after all.

But I was the scrappy kind that knew how to hotwire a car. 

And I was pretty certain I could find a car at what was now 2:37 a.m. that nobody was using. 


	4. Hellhounds Are Hell's Literal Bitches

Four hours and one mom van (that I did, in fact, leave in a place where it would easily be found) later, I was there and prepared. I mixed salt in to the paint before doing the symbols, and threw some on it as it was drying for good measure. All doors and windows were lined heavily with salt, as well as the perimeter as a whole. I wasn't gonna fuck around with this. Once the door opened, a bucket of salt would tip over on the entering person as well.

I seriously wasn't going to fuck around.

And so I waited. I'd brought actual food with me, or at least semi-actual food. Enough to keep me decently fed for two days. The chinese restaraunt was a good place, but they really did need to lock their doors if they didn't want thieves (or desperate young adults) to nab a few gallons of water and some sort of food. Bread, mostly. Bread would keep for a while longer than meat, although I had grabbed one or two pre-made chicken meals (freshly cooked that day, my ass) that served as a nice dinner for my hungry self.

I didn't sleep, though. Not for two days. I was afraid of every sound I heard. Every creak was a demon trying to sneak up on me. Every voice was a cop that was going to bust me and kill me. Every car was a death sentence, waiting to crash through the wooden walls. I kept my salt bombs and picketknives nearby, and carried one of both when I went to use the restroom in a broken toilet that probably didn't actually work anymore.

I didn't complain. Not once. 

I had a roof over my head, walls around me, food, a bathroom, and people that were coming to help me. People that believed me and knew what the shit was going on and would HELP. 

I was going to be helped.

Two days passed by and night fell once more. No Dean Winchester. No cavalry. No Castiel. No help.

I looked at my phone, the one I'd used to call him. I didn't know whether to call or pray it would ring on it's own. It hadn't over the past two days. 

What if they changed their minds?

What if they were dead, all because I'd asked them for help?

What if they'd simply forgotten about me?

I sat there, in the dark, terrified and tired and torn between calling and waiting. 

Then I heard it. A noise that chilled me to the very bone.

Howling.

Terrible, awful howling, maybe a half mile away.

That was when I picked up the phone and called Dean, my fingers somehow not screwing up the number. This time, he picked up on the first ring. "Kai?" He asked.

"Dean, where are you?" I asked him. 

"We're maybe ten minutes away. Why?"

"I hear some sort of animal." I whispered. The howling sounded again, louder and closer. "Like a wolf or something, but it sounds wrong."

I heard Dean swear on his end. "How far off?" He asked. Another howl rang out, closer again and joined by more. 

"Not that far." I whispered. "And there's more than one." 

"Did you salt the doors and windowsills like I said?" He asked. I nodded before I realized he couldn't hear a nod. 

"And the entire interior perimeter." I answered. "Dean, what's happening?"

"You're going to be fine, just stay inside the salt. We'll be there soon." I could sense he was about to end the call.

"Don't hang up." I said quickly. I could feel a pause on his end. "Please, don't hang up. I don't know what's going on, and if you won't tell me then please, just stay on the line with me until you get here." 

He was deliberating. I hoped he would stay. I just needed someone to keep talking with me, so I wouldn't be alone. 

"Ok." He said. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. "I'm going to hand you off to my brother, Sam, so I can get some things prepared while he's driving. Are you alright with that?"

"Ok." I agreed. I heard a small exchange of words before a new voice was on the phone. This one was younger, almost lighter-sounding.

"Hi!" He was forcing calm and brightness in to his voice. "I'm Sam. What's your name?"

"Kai."

"No last name?" He asked. I heard those howls again, maybe two hundred feet out. 

"No." I responded after a few moments of waiting. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" Sam asked. 

"The howling." I answered.

"No." He said after a minute. "Not yet. Don't focus on that right now, we're maybe five minutes away." I heard Dean say something I couldn't understand. "We're less than five minutes away." Sam said to me confidently. "Tell me more about yourself. How old are you?"

"18." I replied honestly. Most times I tell people two or three years older, but I was too terrified to fall in to my normal lies. "I'll be 19 in three months." 

"That's really awesome. Anything you want for your birthday?"

"Food." Another howling set. Maybe 75 feet. Probably less. "They're closer. Almost here."

I heard the sound of tires screeching as lights flooded the front door. 

"So are we." Sam answered. I heard scratching at the walls, saw claw marks appear in the glass at the windows while the howling kept going. I looked at the phone, about to shout for Sam, and saw that the call had been ended by him. 

They were terrifying. Things I couldn't see, howling and scratching and beginning to break the walls. I heard gunshots, followed by squealing. "Reload!" I heard Dean shout. More shots were fired, followed by the sounds of more wounded animals. I was thankful that we were in downtown Chicago. Cops wouldn't be here for a while. Gunshots were too common for the area. 

Finally, after what felt like forever, it ended. I waited, taking a few breaths. One Mississippi, breath. Two Mississippi, breathe. Three Mississippi...

"Kai!" A voice shouted from the door. Dean's, again. I almost wept with relief.

"Kai, are you in there?!" Sam's voice that time, still from the door. I found my voice, nodding and smiling and shouting that I was there, I was alive, and that I was alive again because I was just there, and someone was here to help me. 

The door opened, and two tall men came through. One taller than the other, and slightly lankier, with long-ish brown hair. The other had a short, dark haircut and a rougher face. Both were wearing very, very, very dorky looking glasses.

I didn't have anymore time to acknowledge other details, though. That was when the suspended bucket tipped and fell, coating the pair in salt. I took a huge breath in, watching as they stopped, eyes closed and faces scrunched. 

"I'm.... I'm....." I stopped, registering that they weren't in pain, not at all. They were just annoyed. Mildly confused. "You're not demons." I said. I hadn't even thought about that possibility.

"No, we're not." Sam said, taking a deep breath and wiping salt off his face. Dean did the same, and the pair shook it all off as best as they could. "Nice job on the trap, though. Where did you get this much salt?"

"There was an italian place that didn't lock their kitchen doors." I answered. "Want some bread?"

"So, you stole." Dean stated, almost as if asking for clarification. 

"I didn't have much of a choice." I answered. 

"I'm not judging," Dean said, sensing the defenses in my voice. "Just curious. How did you get it all here?"

"There was a mom van." I told him. "I left it where the police could find it!" 

"That's probably how the hounds got your scent, too." Dean muttered. "But you hotwired a car, stole food and salt, and drove it all the way here? I'm impressed."

"Dean!" Sam muttered, looking at him pointedly. "Don't encourage her!"

"What?" He asked. "She's resourceful! I like her!"

"What were those things?" I asked, interrupting the two now-obvious brothers. Both of them thought for a minute before Sam answered.

"Those were hellhounds." He said. "They're determined to kill whatever they have the scent of, so we had to kill them first."

"Are they all dead?" I asked. 

"Yeah."

"How did you see them?"

"With these," Dean tapped the glasses he wore before taking them off. Sam did the same. "Dipped in holy fire. Can see hellhounds no problem."

"And you guys....." I took a deep breath. "You just..... You...." I needed a minute to process this. "You hunt hellhounds. And kill hellhounds. And demons are real and God is real and that probably means Hell is real too and ghosts and oh God I'm going to hell for stealing." I stood for a few minutes, frozen. Everything was hitting me all at once. I hadn't slept since Dean had called me, and hadn't gotten more than four-ish hours of sleep at a time in a long while. I'd been starving, roofless, cold and scared and it all just hit me in one wave.

Demons were real.

Sleep deprivation was a thing.

Hellhounds were real.

This was the first roof over my head that I had been allowed to sleep in in years.

You could see Hellhounds with nerdy glasses, and kill them with what sounded like shotguns.

People were here to help me.

My thoughts were swirling. I barely heard Dean and Sam talking to each other for a minute. Finally, one of them snapped me out of my reverie. Dean. They were both much closer to me, startling me for a minute. "Hey, easy there tiger," he said, trying to calm me. "Why don't you come with us back to the Bunker?"

"Bunker?" I asked. 

"It's a safehouse. Pretty far away, but it's one of the safest places on the planet." Sam answered.

"You're going to take me somewhere.... Far away.... In your car?" I asked for clarification. "Really?"

Dean and Sam shook their heads, realizing how it sounded all of the sudden. "That is NOT what we meant." Sam said. 

"Is there any way that you can teach me here, in Chicago?" I asked. "Like with the wierdo symbol on the floor, or why salt works, or if there's anything a little more deadly I can use. Or how demons and hellhounds are real and why in the hell they're hunting me."

"We don't know why they want you." Dean said after a few moments. "You say they killed your family, right? Maybe they don't like people getting away."

"But why MY family?" I pointed out.

"We don't know. Contract, probably." Sam offered. That just left me more confused, and I could even see Sam and Dean unsure about that one. They'd killed my family years ago. Why me now? Why them, then?

There were a lot of why's, right now.

"How do I defend myself better?" I decided to move on to questions they could answer. "Why do the salt and the symbol and the shotguns and the glasses work?"

Why did God give me your phone number? 

That was the one I had wanted to ask the most. Why me in particular, and why them in particular. I mean, obviously they knew their shit, bu the they KNEW his name, knew Castiel. They'd asked if I'd seen him. So where was he, how did he know them. 

I had enough questions to give a congressman problems and an unknown amount of time to get them answered.

"We'll tell you if you come with us." Dean replied. "There's a safehouse in California, on the harbor. We'll explain it all on the way."

"No." I argued. I couldn't believe I was arguing with the guys who saved my life, but I couldn't help it, either. Strange men definitely twice my age, telling me to get in a car with them during the middle of the night. 

"Why not?"

"Because I've made it this long on my own without you two, and no offense, but I'm not going to get dependant now. So tell me what I need to know, and I'll be out of your hair." I decided. 

"Where will you go?" Sam asked. I thought about that one for a minute.

"Somewhere." I answered defensively. "Haven't been to Nevada yet. I mean, it's mostly desert, but nobody will look for me there." 

"Kai, we know you're homeless." Dean said blatantly. I shrugged.

"So?"

"Don't you want a place to stay?" He asked. "Somewhere with safety and knowledge and options?"

Yeah.

Yeah, I did. Badly. 

But not as a place to run and hide. I needed a place I could make a home, not a place where I could be stashed to the side until they know what to do. 

I've already spent a good part of my life learning to survive. I couldn't just stop doing that at anything that terrifies me. 

"Not as a hiding place." I answered, keeping my head high. "Not as somewhere that I can run away from my problems."

Dean let out a small sigh. "Fine." He said. "We'll teach you, under one condition."

"Two conditions." Sam piped up. I waited, nodding for them to continue. "You allow us to put you in a motel while we teach you, including a few meals." I was about to make a comment when he put up his hands. "Call it an early birthday present."

"Alright." I acquiesced. I didn't like the dependency thing at all, I really didn't. Like, I hate handouts. I hate welfare. I hate people giving me things. I have no problem with the idea, I help out those around me as much as I can, but I hate it for myself. I've lived homeless and middle class. I hated pity. I hated people feeling obligated.

I knew that was probably the same situation for the training, but it was still different to me. I had asked them for help on that. I would go out on my own and help others with the knowledge. 

Like job training.

"What's the second one?" I asked.

"You keep that phone." Dean said. "And call us. Keep that phone, keep the address for the safehouse, and call us if something comes up. Don't be afraid to." 

"Alright." I conceded. Training in exchange for knowledge, with a bit of pity that I would have to stomach.

"Alright." Dean and Sam said. 

"What motel am I meeting you guys at?" I asked. They looked at me, stunned. "What? I'm still not getting in a car with strangers."

"The nearest motel is 20 minutes away, by car." Sam pointed out.

"Ok. See you in thirty, then." I grabbed my backpack, and slung it over my shoulder as I walked past them. The car was nice. Very nice. The 1967 black Chevy Impala had been my littlest brother's favorite car. 

Art talked for hours about cars. 

He would've loved the opportunity to ride in one. 

"Nice car." I commented as the brothers joined me. I could still smell the salt on them. "Chevy '67 Impala. Almost belongs in a museum."

"You know cars?" Dean asked. 

"No." I answered, moving to open the back passenger door. I threw my backpack in first before I hopped in, settling down in the seat and taking a second to pray I was doing the right thing.

Thank you, Castiel. I thought. Thank you for sending me people who could save me. 

I hope you're still alright, wherever you are. 

Dean and Sam took the driver's and shotgun seats, respectively. Neither said a word about my change of heart. They just put the car in gear and left the warehouse in the dust. I took a second to look back at my temporary home. Two days with a roof and bathroom and food was longer than normal. Most places only allowed you for a day, or only did food and had you find your own place. Areas that let you stay for longer, I tended to avoid. The people in those areas were ones who needed it, people who had families or couldn't make it on their own. Even then, those areas only lasted for a week, tops. 

If I'd gone to any of those in the beginning, I would've been a system kid. That wasn't what I wanted to be. 

Those two days in that shack, that had been the longest I'd had an actual roof and four walls in a long time, and I was about to stay in a hotel for the first time in a long, long time. 

Did it really take me being attacked by demons and hellhounds (still wrapping my head around that bit) to achieve a small part of safety? 

Apparently so.


End file.
